A magistrate’s court is not a dignified place, and I had longed for
its sordid littleness to have an end that I might emerge on to a
larger platform.
I did so sooner than I expected. Lord Gascoyne, whose heart had never
been strong, succumbed under the strain and anxiety of the whole
affair, and I awoke one morning in prison to find the dream of my life
realised. I was Earl Gascoyne. My child, whether boy or girl, would be
the next heir, and whatever happened, I had achieved my purpose.
It had one unlooked-for result. I immediately claimed my right to be
tried by my peers.
Judging from the newspapers, the claim came upon the public as
something of a shock. In the Radical press there was an outcry for the
abolition of such an antiquated custom. They were, however, brought
face to face with a law of the land which so long as it stands is
good.
This prospect almost reconciled me to my position. I saw myself, a
picturesque figure, seated on a daïs, with my fellow-peers in their
robes before me. Yes, I had just the appearance to carry off such a
situation.
I was sure of female sympathy. I was barely twenty-six, and looked
younger. I should certainly have obtained something for my trouble.
The question as to whether I was likely to get a fairer trial from my
peers did not weigh with me. I would not for a certain acquittal have
foregone the scene in the House of Lords.
As far as I knew, the last peer to be tried on a charge of murder was
the celebrated Earl Ferrers. I read everything to do with this trial
with assiduity. I noticed that, instead of being relegated to the
common gaol, he had been confined in his own house. I regretted to
discover that this was not a right, or if it were I could not find
anything bearing on the subject.
It would have been eminently satisfactory to go under escort from Park
Lane to the House of Lords every day. As a matter of fact, I supposed
I should have to be taken to and fro, or perhaps I should be lodged in
some apartment in the precincts of Westminster Palace. The prospect
teemed with interest, and was not a little comic. The papers, which
had, of course, talked of nothing but my case for weeks, became trebly
excited. The probable ceremonial was discussed at length by all of
them. Articles by celebrated lawyers, letters from antiquaries,
suggestions from all sides, filled up their columns and tided them
over the dull weeks in a way which ought to have made them highly
grateful to me.
I was myself in doubt for a short period as to whether my never having
taken my seat or the oath would prevent my claiming my privilege. I
believe everyone was too anxious to see the fun to press any debatable
point. Of course, at the end of all this excitement loomed a not
improbable and most unpleasant climax, but I was accustoming myself to
think less and less of it every day.
I read the State Trials assiduously, for they teemed with interest for
me.
The fact that I was not to be tried with the farce of a jury was a
great comfort to me. If there is one thing more ridiculous than
another in our judicial system, it is the fiction that when a
gentleman has been tried before a dozen petty tradesmen he has been
tried by his peers. If a peer were tried by a dozen gentlemen of
ordinarily good standing and repute, he would be tried by his peers,
but to try a gentleman before a dozen men who can have no knowledge of
the conditions under which he has lived is simply absurd. Murder
trials, the results of which with our system of capital punishment are
irrevocable, should be tried by three judges whose verdict should be
unanimous, and the trial should always take place in another part of
the country from that in which the crime has been committed.
My perceptions became abnormally keen on matters of legal procedure. I
sometimes found myself, when reflecting on such matters, starting with
the assumption that I was innocent. It was amazing how completely I
could follow a line of argument having my innocence for its basis.
It was decided that I should be taken to the House of Lords the night
before the trial and lodged in the precincts, under a strict guard,
till its conclusion.
I was uncertain until the last moment whether I should have the escort
of military, or mounted police. As a matter of fact, I was honoured
with neither, but was hemmed in by detectives.
I did not doubt but that I should have a perfectly fair trial. I can
imagine no tribunal where a man is likely to receive more impartial
treatment.
I read all the papers, and was disturbed to notice that a suspicion
gradually manifested itself as to the real truth. It began to be
remembered how speedily the members of the family which stood between
me and the title had disappeared, and under what tragic circumstances.
I had always made a point of not having my photograph taken.
Unfortunately, the police did this for me, and the proprietor of the
hotel at which young Gascoyne Gascoyne had stayed when he was supposed
to have poisoned himself recognised me at once. It was flattering as a
tribute to my individuality, but inconvenient. I was for at once
admitting that I had been at the hotel at the time, but my lawyers
would not hear of it. Every inch of the ground, they declared, must be
fought. They were a most able firm, and, realising that I was an
advertisement such as they could never hope for again, they nursed the
case—which in the first place was strong and healthy enough to have
satisfied any lawyers—with tender solicitude.
I said that I had mentioned the fact to Mr. Gascoyne, as he then was,
and that he might have told his wife. I asked if this would be
accepted in evidence. They scouted the idea, however, of its being
used, so I forbore to press the question further. The chances that Mr.
Gascoyne had told his wife were extremely remote.
Having tracked me to the hotel at Lowhaven, the police were somewhat
at a loss. They utterly failed to establish the fact that I had any
poison in my possession at that time. They then threw themselves with
ardour into the details of Ughtred Gascoyne’s death. Here, again,
although it was possible to show that I was not infrequently at his
flat late at night, their most strenuous efforts could not prove that
I was there on the night on which the fire had taken place.
I was sure that suspicion about this began to creep into my wife’s
mind. Perhaps she had learned that the Parsons were fictitious
individuals. It may also have struck her that I must have passed the
road where her brother was found dead, earlier on the same evening.
These two facts, taken together with my being in the same hotel with
young Gascoyne when he died, and as much evidence as could be raked up
against me in connection with Ughtred Gascoyne’s death, must have
forged a chain of implication which could not but shake the most
serene confidence. Not that I had the least fear of her acting in a
hostile manner. She could not have done anything had she wished to;
besides, she belonged to that class of woman who, possessing most of
the virtues, would never drag her husband’s name in the dust. Her
conscience might—had she been questioned—have triumphed, but that she
would speak out of her own free will I did not believe.
As the day of the trial drew nearer and nearer without any new charge
my confidence rose. I suppose this optimism lies at the back of every
prisoner’s mind. The possibility of an acquittal probably never
disappears till the foreman of the jury delivers the terrible word
guilty, a word which has a leaden sound complementary to the
deadliness of its meaning.
My wife came to see me the day before the trial, and though she strove
hard against the awful horror that I could see was in her mind, the
strain was at last telling on her. She was taken away in a dead faint.
I was sorry for her. I knew it was the last thing she would have
wished should happen. My own danger had driven all three women out of
my mind, and it was a psychological point which interested me
extremely. I had loved them so fervently; and I could love fervently,
even if not on the highest level. My own position, however, was so
enormously important in my eyes that they were quite dwarfed. I could
not rouse myself to any degree of emotion over their sufferings. It
was not the idea of losing them that predominated in my mind, nor the
idea of dwelling in their memory as a thing for pity, the victim of a
terrible and gloomy death.
I regret to say that my departure for London, considered as a
spectacle, was a failure.
I left the county prison in an ordinary carriage, and was put into a
special train which drew up at a crossing in the depths of the
country. I remember as I passed from the carriage to the railway-train
casting my eye over a mellow, moonlit landscape, and wondering where I
should be when they cut the corn. To one of my temperament it was a
beautiful world I was perhaps leaving, and it was a dismal reflection
that I might not share in the next year’s harvest of pleasant things.
The train reached London at an early hour of the morning, and such
perfect arrangements had been made that the few porters about hardly
realised who it was who was hurried into a private carriage and driven
off.
Passing through the streets as dawn was breaking, I could see on the
advertisement boards outside small newspaper shops the soiled posters
of the evening papers. They bore large headlines with: “Trial of Lord
Gascoyne,” “Latest Arrangements,” etc., etc. There was not a paper
which had not displayed it more prominently than any other item of
news. This was gratifying. The carriage drew up at the peers’ entrance
to the House of Lords, for such was my privilege, and in a few minutes
I had full assurance that I was receiving the hospitality of
gentlemen. I was ushered into two rooms which had been set apart for
me, and in one of which was laid a comfortable and substantial
breakfast. To this I did full justice. Arrangements had been so made
that I was practically alone in the room, although, of course, I was
being very carefully watched. It was exceedingly comforting to feel
that if they were going to hang me, they were going to do it with tact
and breeding.
Parliament being in session, my trial would not take place before the
Court of the Lord High Steward. I was glad, for that would have been
comparatively a very small affair.
It may be as well to state that the House of Lords is a Court of
Justice, of which all Peers of Parliament are judges, and the Lord
High Steward the President. It differs from an ordinary court of law,
inasmuch as all the peers taking part in the trial are judges both of
the law and of the facts.
At a very early hour I could hear a great deal of bustling and passing
to and fro. I lay down on my bed, however, and had a most refreshing
sleep. On awaking I was told that my lawyers wished to see me.
I had an interview with them lasting about an hour. They were both
mightily important and very excited. The atmosphere of the place had
evidently given them the idea that they were historical individuals,
and I fancy that they looked upon me as if I had been accused of High
Treason, and, in fact, treated me as quite a great personage.
So intense had been the excitement aroused, and so general was the
interest displayed, that it had been decided to hold the trial in the
roomier accommodation of Westminster Hall. I knew from what my counsel
had told me that the peers had begun to assemble at ten o’clock. It
was fully eleven, however, before I was summoned.
Although I was guarded to a certain extent by the usual officers of
the law, I was nominally in charge of the yeoman usher of the Black
Rod, and in his custody I was brought to the Bar.
Just before I entered a note was put into my hands which I was allowed
to read. It was from Esther Lane, and ran:
“Love is always difficult to bear, because of its madness, which
overthrows, and its vision, which distorts. Pleasant we deem the
kisses of men, though they sting, but the stings of suffering are
the kisses of God, and they burn like fire.”
Womanlike, though she was thinking of me, she was thinking somewhat
more of herself.
It was a brilliant scene which I emerged upon, though perhaps somewhat
lacking in the magnificence that would have attended it had it taken
place a century earlier.
The Lord High Steward, as President, was seated in front of a throne,
and on either side of him were the peers, in their robes, and wearing
their orders. In front of the President was a raised daïs, on which
was placed an armchair, and by the side of which was a table.
Near this daïs were tables at which were seated my counsel and other
legal advisers. There was a gallery at one side, in which were seated
the peeresses, and another gallery at the other side, in which were a
number of Ambassadors, foreign royalties and noblemen, semi-resident
in England. The difference between such a trial conducted amid a feast
of colour and variety from what it must have been had it been
conducted at the Old Bailey with its gloom and almost squalid lack of
breadth was startling to think upon.
I had thoroughly studied the effect of my entrance. I knew that the
scarlet of my peer’s robes formed an absolute tone contrast to my
Jewish appearance, and I was conscious of making a marked effect on
the women present.
As an artist, I had suffered grievously in my own estimation by the
blunders I had made in removing Lord Gascoyne, and I was determined
that henceforward, whatever happened, I would not do anything which
could mar the beauty and interest of the situation.
I waited at the foot of the daïs while Norroy, King-at-Arms, called
‘Oyez, Oyez.’ The letters patent constituting a Lord High Steward were
then read.
Norroy, and the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, then did their
reverences kneeling, and presented the White Staff jointly to the Lord
High Steward, who, receiving it, immediately delivered it to the
Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod on his right hand. The Purse-Bearer,
holding the purse, was on his left.
All these officials in their archaic costumes produced a most
picturesque effect. The composition was seen in a sort of half-light,
mellowing its garishness and the primary tones of official uniform.
Through the windows, which had been veiled to keep out the glare of a
brilliant summer sun, a golden light fell here and there, just
sufficient to edge the scene with a gilded splendour.
The writ of certiorari for removing the indictment before the King in
Parliament was then read. I will not reproduce this legal document,
but it is sufficient to say that it charged me with the sole offence
of poisoning Lord Gascoyne. I already saw in the faces of those around
me that they believed what the press had daily insinuated, viz., that
I was a wholesale murderer. Herein lay a great peculiarity and paradox
of justice. It would not have been permissible to even hint in a court
of law that there was a breath of suspicion attached to me in regard
to the deaths of the other Gascoynes; it struck me, however, that it
would have been excellent proof as to my innocence had it been argued
that so clever a criminal as the alleged murderer of these others had
been, would never have blundered so grossly over the murder of Lord
Gascoyne.
As I stood and listened to these preliminaries I was being scrutinised
by everyone in the Hall. The Lords were freed from the discomfort of
trying one who had been born and bred among them. There were no
recollections of Eton and Oxford to spoil the abstract drama of the
occasion. I was to the great majority a stranger, and to the rest a
mere acquaintance. Of course, I was connected with some of those
present, but in so distant a degree that it hardly amounted to
anything, and for all practical purposes I stood there a stranger.
This must undoubtedly have been a relief to them, as curiosity could
be given full play.
The clerk of the Parliaments then directed the Sergeant-at-Arms to
make proclamation for Black Rod to bring his prisoner within the Bar.
I was led to the chair on the daïs which was technically considered
within the Bar. The daïs had been provided so that I might have, as
was only fair, a commanding position, and see and hear all that was
going on. I remembered to have seen an old print of Charles I. being
tried, and the recollection of it came back to me very vividly, except
that in place of the motley crew of fanatics and bullies who
constituted themselves his judges I had an assembly of gentlemen,
reinforced by English judges, and in place of Bawling Bradshaw, I had
a Lord Chancellor who was one of the most cultured men of his day.
Having arrived on the daïs, I did due reverence to the court with all
the dignity imaginable. I fancy the impression was good, and must at
any rate have convinced the peers present, that even if I were unknown
to them they had not been summoned to try a vulgarian under the most
select form known to English law.
The Clerk of the Parliaments then again read the indictment and asked:
“How say you, my lord, are you guilty of the felony whereof you stand
indicted or are you not guilty?”
I pleaded not guilty, and the trial proceeded.
I have come to the conclusion that the case was a curiously simple
one, although it entirely depended on circumstantial evidence. The
principal witnesses were the chemist, and the two servants. It was a
descent from the sublime to the ridiculous when these humble folk
stepped into the box, and I shall never forget—by the way, under the
circumstances not a prolonged limit of memory—the bewhiskered and
perspiring little chemist gazing round on the august assemblage before
which he was appearing, evidently not at all certain that he might not
be ordered out to instant execution. I almost thought that he would
become delirious and be unable to give his evidence, but he pulled
himself together, and by the time he left the box was evidently under
the impression that he was one of us. Indeed, he replied in quite a
chatty way to the Lord High Steward when asked a question by that
exalted functionary.
The opening of the prosecution struck me as being vindictive, but it
is possible that the prisoner is not a good judge of such a point.
It was lunch-time before the preliminary law questions had been
disposed of and the opening speech of the prosecution made. I was led
out by a side door before anyone else moved. When I returned the court
was already assembled. The remainder of the day was spent in examining
the witnesses. There could be no doubt that I had bought arsenic, for
I was recognised by both the chemist and his assistant. Not till I
heard the story unfolded in court did I realise how very crudely I had
acted. The examination of the witnesses was proceeding when the court
rose. I spent the evening looking out on the river with some very
melancholy reflections on the advantages of liberty. The dark barges,
looking like gigantic pachyderms, floated silently past, with their
solitary lights shining dimly. The river reflected the city lights in
innumerable little splashes of flame, which danced and glimmered with
the restless waters. On the far bank I could see figures passing to
and fro. In the solitary fastness of a gaol it had been easy to
realise the fact of being a prisoner, but in a room which bore no
resemblance in any way to a cell, it was exceedingly difficult.
Besides, there was the open door, and I almost forgot the watchers in
the passage. The windows had been barred temporarily. Otherwise there
was an air of comfort, even of luxury, about the room.
I received a long letter from my wife which did extraordinary credit
to her sense of justice and her self-control. It was written as if
with the utmost belief in my innocence, and evidently she had striven
to keep her mind in such an attitude. I answered her at once, not
abating any apparent affection, and saying that between us two it was
unnecessary to reiterate my innocence, as I knew her trust in me to be
absolute.
Towards the end of the letter I worked myself into quite a fervour of
sublime confidence that no injustice would be done, and that an unseen
Providence was watching over me.
Then I read Lord Beaconsfield’s _Vivian Grey_ till I went to bed. I
slept well, all things considered. I hoped to sleep better when the
verdict was given, whichever way the case might be decided.
The next morning I awoke early, and as the law took so little account
of individual psychology as to imagine that I might cut my throat, I
was obliged to send out for a barber.
The youth who performed the operation was a pleasant young man, whose
excitement was so painful that I warned him it was High Treason to cut
the throat of a peer of the realm when he was being tried for his
life.
I asked him what his own opinion was as to my guilt.
The question took him so entirely by surprise that he sprang away from
me fully a yard.
“Come,” I said. “What do people say?”
He flushed and was silent.
“So people think I am guilty, do they?”
“Some do, your grace.”
“That means that most do. Now, does anyone believe in my innocence?”
“Oh yes, my lord, of course, some.”
“I see; very few people believe in my innocence. Who are those that
do?”
He smiled. “I think the women do, my lord.”
This was satisfactory. I could not have had more practical support.
He told me further that there was a vast crowd outside in Westminster
Yard.
I advised him to make his way at once to a newspaper office, and sell
them a description of his interview with me. I warned him, however,
that he must exaggerate if he wished to be believed, and I gave him
full permission to invent any details of the occurrence which he might
think useful.
The Hall was perhaps even more crowded than it had been the day
before. This showed a proper increase of interest.
The cross-examinations were masterly, especially when it was
considered how simple the evidence of the bare half-dozen witnesses
was.
My counsel managed to throw doubt on the fact of my having been the
man who bought the poison. This doubt, it is true, counsel for the
prosecution soon swept aside, but I could not help admiring the
dexterity with which my counsel threw a veil of uncertainty over what,
when stated by the prosecution, had seemed facts beyond dispute.
The contention of the prosecution was very simple. It was to nobody’s
interest but mine and Mr. Gascoyne’s that Lord Gascoyne should die,
and whilst Mr. Gascoyne was in London, the prisoner was constantly in
Lord Gascoyne’s company. Further, it was pointed out that I was the
only person left alone with the bottle of claret, and that the moment
I was so left alone was the only one during which the wine could have
been poisoned. I was further proved to have been in possession of
arsenic for which I could not account. It had been suggested that the
poison might have been in the cup of tea which Lord Gascoyne had
drunk, but there was nothing to support this view. It was regrettable
that this cup had been removed, and washed before it had been
examined. Lord Gascoyne, however, was taken ill almost immediately
after he had drunk the tea. This made the insinuation that it was
poisoned unlikely, as arsenic had, as far as could be proved, never
acted instantaneously. My counsel, in the course of his address, made
an earnest appeal that everything alien to the case which had been
circulated, he could only say in a most scandalous manner, in certain
organs of the press, should be put out of mind. He insinuated that in
this respect he felt a greater confidence in their lordships than he
would have done in an ordinary jury.
He concluded by the usual passionate appeal for the benefit of any
doubt which might linger in their minds.
The Lord High Steward summed up the evidence, and a very brief
summing-up it was. Then their lordships retired, and after three
hours’ deliberation I was brought back into court.
I knew directly I returned what the verdict was, for in all faces
there was the same look of intense gravity. Over the entire assembly
there lay an almost oppressive silence. I noticed that people avoided
looking at me, as if it were an intrusion to witness the emotions of
any human being at such a moment.
After the verdict was given there passed across the whole place a sort
of sigh, followed by a terrible hush.
I stood up and heard the sentence, and then, with the most profound
reverence to the entire court, withdrew, satisfied that I could not be
accused of having behaved otherwise than with a calmness and dignity
befitting the privilege of belonging to such an assembly.